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Poem: “Theodore Roosevelt”



I smell the dust of the ranch

and the smoke of the hill

still as I sit here

and listen to congressmen.


I feel the bruise of the bullet,

the slam of it,

into the folded speech.


I see her sometimes

in the corners of mirrors.

I see her dead

and smell the room.


Part of me

is watery and dark

and filled with tinny echoes.



Patrick T. Reardon



Written @ 1980.

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